


Confidante

by cualacino



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:22:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cualacino/pseuds/cualacino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England has never been a talented, or even willing, conversationalist, but after the USSR falls America and Russia each seek him out regardless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confidante

In retrospect, England giving America the key to his most frequented apartment was not the brightest idea. He’d handed it over in the late 50’s and thirty-something years later he doesn’t have the heart to take it back, or so he tells himself. There is a lopsided sort of warmth whenever America bursts through his door. At the same time, it has been thirty-something years since he has had a quiet night in London. America always seems to know he’ll be there, and he waits for him with a box of Cokes or a bottle of something considerably stronger. At the very least he’ll send a letter, if not a call, with some inane comment. There is always something. England reminds himself whenever America waltzes into the sitting area and _flops_ down on the couch —he’s already worn out the springs of several; will he ever learn?— that he let the man keep the key for sentiment. In all this time he’s probably made copies. When the room grows quiet, though, he knows that one doesn’t simply just revoke a _nuclear_ superpower’s rights.

Which returns to the matter at hand: America, brandy in hand, cigar at his mouth, working his Hollywood smile and bumping England’s door closed with his hip.

He raises his hands, grinning impossibly. “Fuck!”

England grimaces and closes the day’s paper. “Good evening to you too, America.”

“No, seriously, _fuck_.” America sits in the chair opposite. “This calls for a drink. Best Christmas ever, am I right? Let me tell you—” he gestures with the cigar between his index and middle fingers “—this definitely makes up for when that fucker invaded Afghanistan.”

“Why don’t you tell that to the Afghan people, America? I’m sure they appreciate the irony twice as much,” England replies dully. He tosses the paper on the table. It skids to a stop a few inches away from America’s brandy bottle which is drooling a ring of condensation onto the stained wood.

“Aww,” America pouts, brows drawing together. “ _England_.”

“I refuse to drunkenly prance about like a fool just because another empire has completed its cycle.”

America leans back, cups the back of his neck and puts—puts his _feet_ up on the table, Good _God_.

“But what are the chances?”

“Every empire rises, every empire falls.” England grips his cup of tea —a bitterly over-steeped lukewarm thing he’d forgotten about— and takes a sip. “There is no _chance_ involved.” There is a sharpness to his words he desperately wishes he could control. America pays no notice.

“No, I mean, on Christmas _day_. I’m mostly Christian, born and raised at least if we ignore the...the Tripoli thing. But that...it’s fucking _perfect_. Where are your glasses?”

One train of thought right into another. But England’s used to it now, more or less, so he simply gestures to the kitchen area tiredly. “Overhead cupboard to the left of the stove.”

“Nice.” America springs up, thumps across the kitchen and looks none too gently through England’s glassware. There’s a crash followed by America’s enthusiastic “Fucking _shit_! Um, it’s just a tumbler! I’ll buy you a new one tomorrow.”

England tells himself he enjoys the movement in the usually still apartment and he does just...not that much.

“You seriously need a drink,” America advises solemnly as he _slams_ a brandy on the rocks down on the table. England tenses at the movement, the bodily _thunk_ , but accepts the glass.

“Perhaps I do.” He sets it in his lap, doesn’t drink.

America has no such inhibitions and knocks the better part of his drink back with a masculine wince. “You’re fucking _terrified_ , aren’t you.”

“I am not—” He is given a lidded, knowing stare. “Not terrified. Just...unsettled.” England stares at the swirling amber in his glass, and though the yellow lights of his apartment turn the already glistening colours to a beautiful mix of hues, he’d rather he had something...gentler, than cognac with ice. “It’s an uncertain time.”

“Well you _were_. Terrified, I mean.”

The glass hangs loose in America’s fingers and for a fleeting moment England imagines the boy is neither too old or too powerful for England to belt him if he spills so much as a _drop_. It is just that, though, a moment’s fantasy.

“Of course I was.” He doesn’t bother to disguise the edge to his voice now. “Who wasn’t? With you two acting like spoiled children waving around your father’s pistols without the slightest thought to the consequences of your actions. I am simply relieved it’s done. But,” England manages a humorless laugh, “I’m sure it won’t take long for you find your next villain, because the whole world is just a bloody comic to you, isn’t it.” It seems appropriate to punctuate the question with a sharp drink. He stiffens his lip as it smolders in his throat.

America stares at the ice in his glass for a beat. “Guess this means I’m sleeping on the couch tonight, huh.”

“For Christ’s _sake_.” England runs a tense hand down his face and stands. “You are the last thing I need right now. Good-night.”

“How do you think he feels?”

“ _What_?” Because the question sounds like an accusation at first: _How dare you not empathize with So and So._

“Russia.” America takes a smaller, shallower drink. “He must be pretty messed up. I mean, what. Seventy, eighty years trudging through all that commie bullshit that his leaders put him through? Up in smoke. I dunno.” He heaves a sigh and shakes a bit as he lets it go. “I dunno, I just... I wonder how that feels.”

England remembers Turkey coughing up blood on capitulation papers. Remembers the feel of India slipping through his fingers. “Rather poor, I would imagine.”

“And after all the shit he put everyone through...” America shakes his head. “I’ll turn over a new leaf but everyone else? The Baltics, Prussia— well, East Germany. His sisters, his fucking _sisters_. Jesus. How’s he going to get along?”

“How indeed,” England murmurs.

“You holding up okay? I mean, you guys had a...a thing in the Napoleonic Wars, or whatever.”

“Most of Europe has had a _thing_ ,” England notes dryly, but his eyes can’t seem to move from the ice slowly diluting his drink.

“And he killed your queen’s...granddaughter in the Revolution.” America, when he remembers his history, has a habit of going for the throat. A gift, even.

“Well.” He sets his glass down on the end table next to America’s chair. “That’s all for the history books now.”

“Hey,” and there’s a scoff in America’s voice, “we are history books.”

England considers this for a moment.

“That’s very poetic of you, America.”

* * *

 

The Soviet Union fell officially on Wednesday, and a week and two days have passed when Russia crashes into England’s London flat. And since England knows the reason why man is here, it is the small details that concern him. He finds himself wondering what quality of liquor Russia has on him, if the cabbie made the same slightly off-colour remarks about Russians and alcohol that England is inwardly making now, how many times Russia tripped on the steps.

Russia splays his hands out in front of himself blinking owlishly, as though the apartment has very suddenly been plunged into darkness. Closing the door, England reflects that for all the stereotypes of Russians and their drink he has never before seen Russia drunk, only drinking, and it is enough to bring a thin smile to his face.

“What brings you here?” England asks kindly enough, working his expression to some half-amicable. In all likelihood it's lost on the man tottering through his living room.

“C-could not...go to France, he would just—” Russia pauses heavily, and England thinks he might be searching for some proper wording when he blurts, “fuck me, he would just fuck me and...just want to talk.”

He stumbles, trips and England is there to catch him, lead him by the arm to the couch two steps away.

“‘Talk?’” England echoes once Russia is strewn on the cushions. “About what?”

“T’you, I...we have both lost things?” Russia sits up a little, sways. “I...wanted to talk.”

“Mmm,” England nods. “I suppose that’s a reasonable request.”

He arches a leg over Russia, sinks his knee into the cushions, leisurely brings himself onto the couch to trap Russia’s legs in between his own. Russia takes this in with dim eyes, and flails as England lays his hands on the skewed buttons of the man’s coat.

“Nye— no, just talk!” He cries, horrified, as though England is moving on some mistranslated signal.

England raises his eyebrows. “I’m not so much in the mood for talking, Russia. It’s rather late, you know.”

Russia paws at England roughly, pushing him to the side.

“N-no, I do not want this...need this.” He staggers up, searches for balance and stumbles for the door. Three paces away he stops, gropes for something inside his coat and produces a flask. England follows him across the floor. “Just wanted to talk,” he slurs, spinning the cap blindly. “Talk and talk and...drink,” he laughs. “Of course, drink a little.”

England grips his arm. “Russia—”

“No!” He jerks away, arm lashing out in England’s direction, and the momentum of it upsets the fragile balance he’s found. He drops to the floor and bursts out laughing.

“Is always this way,” Russia giggles. “No matter what I always—I come crashing down.”

He’s taken by throes of laughter when England straddles him again.

“How is it that you have more sense when you’re drunk than when you’re sober?” England muses.

“‘Russians are happier drinking. They can’t live without it.’” He clutches England’s shoulder, like they’re good friends speaking in utter confidence. “A prince of mine said that.”

“He knew his people well,” England mutters. He shrugs off Russia’s hand unceremoniously, scowling a bit, and fingers find the inside of Russia’s thigh, his crotch. “How happy are you, Russia, when you’re drinking?”

Russia grimaces, shifts. “No, I—” He tugs at England’s arm weakly. “Just wanted to...to...”

“‘To talk’, yes.” It takes a bit of doing to get the blood to flow right, to collect where Russia will feel it, but England does, eventually, and Russia raises his hands and— _shoves_ him away. England nearly cracks the back of his head off the coffee table.

“No,” Russia insists for what will be the last time that evening. “...not what I want.”

“Oh, it’s not so different, is it?” England stands with some effort, takes a moment to tug his jacket straight, and plants his shoe none too gently at Russia’s groin. “You want company,” he notes with all-consuming nonchalance, giving a nudge of his heel for emphasis. “And here I am.” Russia moans and arches and England...

He recalls this is not the way he planned to spend his evening, not the way he wants to go about this, and so despite the fact that Russia has wrapped his fingers around England’s calf in a way that is not entirely unwanting, he jerks his leg free. Russia watches him with wide, fuzzy eyes, watches as England kneels again and undoes the trousers’ fastens.

For a moment England considers the half-erect cock before tonguing it through Russia’s briefs. There is something, perhaps the friction of poor material on skin or perhaps something else entirely, that makes Russia gasp more than just ordinary contact should, and so England continues. He maps Russia’s shape with his lips, works his tongue across the stiffness there. When his eyes flicker up, Russia is lost apparently, arching up from the floor, digging his nails into the tight weave of England’s rug, heaving staggered breaths.

This is quickly turning into something that it’s not, or not supposed to be. Or —terrifyingly— something that is finally showing its true colours. England would hate to think it’s always been this way, since Persia was more than rugs and cats. He’d thought that their own sort of cold war had fizzled out once Russia had welcomed Lenin and gotten the blood of children on his hands. England had taken comfort in the idea that their game had quietly died. The thought that this —England breathing hot against Russia’s cock just to make him moan a little louder— is three hundred years in the making is...unsettling, to say the least. Because although England has lived some thousand years, everything has been pleasantly transient, especially now when all a superpower has to do is glance at a country to make it an international incident with all else suddenly forgotten.

To think, even to begin to insinuate that this —this revenge, this torment, this, this, this— has been steeping for three dreadful centuries...

Somewhat unexpectedly, this is working for Russia. He’s making weak sounds, eyes shut tight and face flushed, more so than before. He whimpers a little when England mouths his sack, and shudders, and England is following the line of his cock when he comes with a groan and drops his hips to the floor.

England acts on reflex, wiping his mouth though there’s nothing there save for a vague taste. It is Russia’s stare, wide and hollow, that halts him. England regards the man stifling hot breaths, the man bleary with drunken afterglow.

This time, his fingers don’t curl talon-like around Russia’s forearm and take him to the sofa. England rises, leaves Russia and his hollow eyes there.

He pauses, though, to take the flask leaking vodka on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ' if we ignore the...the Tripoli thing': "The Treaty of Tripoli (Treaty of Peace and Friendship between the United States of America and the Bey and Subjects of Tripoli of Barbary) was the first treaty concluded between the United States of America and Tripolitania, signed at Tripoli on November 4, 1796...Article 11 reads: 'Art. 11. As the Government of the United States of America is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion,—as it has in itself no character of enmity against the laws, religion, or tranquility, of Mussulmen [Muslims],—and as the said States never entered into any war or act of hostility against any Mahometan [Muslim] nation, it is declared by the parties that no pretext arising from religious opinions shall ever produce an interruption of the harmony existing between the two countries.'" - From Wikipedia
> 
> 'England remembers Turkey coughing up blood on capitulation papers': "France...had multiple capitulations [trade agreements] across the Ottoman empire, notably in Cairo, a major trade city. These deals were short-term fixes for the declining Ottoman Empire, called the "sick man of Europe", and ultimately ended up doing more harm than good." - End Notes from my fic Pros and Cons

**Author's Note:**

> ' if we ignore the...the Tripoli thing': "The Treaty of Tripoli (Treaty of Peace and Friendship between the United States of America and the Bey and Subjects of Tripoli of Barbary) was the first treaty concluded between the United States of America and Tripolitania, signed at Tripoli on November 4, 1796...Article 11 reads: 'Art. 11. As the Government of the United States of America is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion,—as it has in itself no character of enmity against the laws, religion, or tranquility, of Mussulmen [Muslims],—and as the said States never entered into any war or act of hostility against any Mahometan [Muslim] nation, it is declared by the parties that no pretext arising from religious opinions shall ever produce an interruption of the harmony existing between the two countries.'" - From Wikipedia
> 
> 'England remembers Turkey coughing up blood on capitulation papers': France had multiple capitulations across the Ottoman empire, notably in Cairo, a major trade city. These deals were short-term fixes for the declining Ottoman Empire, called the "sick man of Europe", and ultimately ended up doing more harm than good in the Ottoman economy.
> 
> A lot of the Great Game concerned mutual paranoia of an invasion of Persia. (Bad for England as Persia would lead Russia directly to India, and bad for Russia because Persia was a weak spot in the empire's defenses.)
> 
> ‘Russians are happier drinking. They can’t live without it.’: Infuriatingly, I can't access the quote directly, but I know it's from 'Holy Russia: an historical companion to European Russia' by Fitzroy Maclean. I believe Prince Vladimir of Moscovy said it. The original is "Rusi est vesele piti...Bez nego ne mozhet biti."


End file.
